“And you were quite right. I can laugh at them now I love them. It’s that which makes the difference.”
She strolled to the window.
“Let’s come out on the balcony for a little,” she said. “What an evening!”
The sun had set, but not long, and in the west a flash of molten red lay along the horizon. That melted into orange, which again faded into pale green. Higher up the sky was of velvet blue, and little wisps of feathery cloud flushed with rose colour were flecked over it. The stars were already lit, and some noble planet near to its setting flamed jewel-like in that green strip of sky. Already the colours were half withdrawn from the garden beds, but a hint of the flower presences came to them in the little fragrant breeze that fluttered moth-like in the stillness. Beyond lay the lake, screened from the glory of sunset by the tall clumps of rhododendrons on its far side, and in the shadow the water was dark and steel-like in tone. Birds still chuckled in the bushes, and from far away came the pulse of some hurrying train. And in the hush and quiet of the hour they spoke together of the dear event that was coming and would not be long delayed.
“So I wanted,” she said at last, “to clear everything off my mind which could make me look backward. I want nothing to exist for me except you and our love for each other. Even Dad and Mother must get a little dim. I can’t explain.”
“I think I understand very well,” said he.
“And you won’t be frightened for me, Claude?” she asked. “Yet I needn’t ask you. I saw what you were when mother was ill.”
He did not answer.
“What then, dear?” asked Dora.
“Well, it’s you, you see, now,” he said. “I can’t help it. But I’ll do my best.”